It’s hard to disagree. A pair of jagged, glittering white towers rise over a nearby sightseeing vessel, easily 10 storeys above the surface. The massive underbelly stretches into the depths, painting the steel-blue chop of the Labrador Current an almost-tropical aquamarine. Angry cracking noises echo forth, punctuating the steady sound of wind and spray.

“Oh, she’s going to let go any time now!”

Kean is arguably the most famous “iceberg cowboy” in the world. For over 30 years, he has plied these waters, wrestling chunks of ancient ice from the Atlantic before they dissipate forever. The melted remains make for a compelling pitch: glacially preserved since the stone age and completely untouched by contaminants, this is, ostensibly, Earth’s purest water. Superlatives this glamourous attract diverse clientele: status-conscious socialites wanting to make a splash, starry-eyed philanthropists set on saving the world and, of course, simple passersby curious enough to sample the unconventional beverages these bergs go into — including beer, vodka and wine.

The cowboy moniker doesn’t just come from the hazardous, rope-swinging nature of the work — it mirrors some Wild West lawlessness too. The industry is governed simply, by that age-old creed: finders keepers. So far, this has worked out just fine. Icebergs are plentiful, and harvesters are few — there have been scarcely any issues with losers weepers. Still, some legal experts are highlighting the need to establish a proper framework. Who has authority over this resource? Who really owns an iceberg?

Kean’s first mate swings a grappling hook around his head like a lasso, hurling the rope overboard at the target. Once snagged, a brief tug-of-war with the Atlantic brings the growler alongside the vessel.

It’s at this point that this piece of ice becomes Kean’s — a legal principle called rule of capture. It certifies that the first person to “capture” a resource is the person to own it — however, when it comes to icebergs, this isn’t codified by any authority. In the absence of regulation, it’s simply become the modus operandi. Previously, Kean needed a commercial licence issued by the provincial government to harvest. The requirement was waived in 2021, according to a spokesperson, to provide “an opportunity for growth in a small industry.” 

Crew members next use long hook-tipped poles to manoeuvre the ice into a lowered net. Once secure, a mechanical arm hoists the multi-tonne, golf-cart-sized piece aboard.

The prize is laid on the deck and immediately hosed off to limit any salty contamination. Now armed with pickaxes and shovels, the crew smashes the growler into more manageable pieces, which are moved into large plastic barrels to melt naturally in the coming days. Once landside, the water will be filtered for delivery to breweries and businesses across the island.

Svalbarði isn’t the only iceberg water company in the obituaries. Iluliaq, Inland Ice and Glace were similar ventures; all now appear to be defunct.

Berg, also based out of Newfoundland, closed in 2022, but restarted operations two years later and is now periodically purchasable online for around $40 per bottle. The company declined to comment for this story.

While Kean values the water’s purity, its pricing as an indulgent luxury cuts little ice. “It’s only still water,” he laughs. A little reluctantly, he acknowledges “it’s all about the marketing. People want to buy a story.”

A 450 ml bottle of his own water, branded as Kold, is sold for about $5. Hand-bottled, labelled and delivered across the island by Kean himself, it comes in unpretentious bottles or cans — the larger sizes even featuring a practical sports cap. However, using the water as a bottled novelty is — so sorry for this — just the tip of the iceberg. There are some with a more quixotic vision.

Wood-Donnelly adds a disclaimer to the thought exercise. “I like to say that law, especially international law, it’s not like, ‘rules.’ That’s something I borrow from Pirates of the Caribbean,” she says, sliding into a delightfully passable impression of the villainous Captain Barbossa. “It’s really just guidelines.” She clarifies: that doesn’t mean international law has no force. However, like the pirate code, its power comes from the self-interested participation of states, not an overarching authority to enforce it.

Kean’s iceberg likely calved from a glacier in the sovereign territory of Greenland (Denmark), splashed into its territorial waters, and drifted thousands of kilometres into Canadian seas. You are probably unsurprised to learn this is not typical behaviour for a mineral. Perhaps recognizing it as such is disingenuous.

Instead, maybe icebergs are more like fish. Like the anadromous salmon, icebergs begin life in a terrestrial freshwater system before migrating to sea, eventually dying. In that case, The Law of the Sea dictates it is primarily the responsibility of Greenland, as their birthplace, to manage them, while still cooperating with others that have an established stake in the harvest.

And then, of course, icebergs could simply be fresh water in transit. Just as fresh water flows in a river between sovereign states, icebergs flow on ocean currents between sovereign waters. Existing agreements like the UN Watercourses Convention or the Rio Grande Treaty of 1906 could model the recognition that upstream users need to consider the needs of downstream users.

Antarctic icebergs add an additional layer of complexity. Different norms and treaties reign on the southern continent. If icebergs are legally minerals, fish, water or any other manner of resource, different frameworks apply. But icebergs are none of these things.

As a solution, Wood-Donnelly has suggested the Arctic Council, the primary intergovernmental forum for Arctic affairs, could take the issue under their purview. In expected diplomatic fashion, the Arctic Council declined to comment on the hypothetical.